A Thousand Beautiful Steps
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Gilbert's a cop and Matthew's a peace-and-love type hippie with no real home. What could go wrong? Human AU.
1. Chapter 1

_I don't own Hetalia_

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**1.**

Matthew leaned his head back in the passenger seat. The music pounded through his head, vibrating the seats, and forming abstract colours and images in his mind. He tapped his hand against the window to what he imagined the beat to be.

His brother noticed. He turned up the volume slightly, causing the sounds to pulse even more smoothly through the car. The bass hummed and Matthew began to grin. He raised his hand and signed _good. _To him, without even looking. Alfred didn't respond, turning his eyes back on the road.

Snow had begun to fall thickly now, layering haze across the freeway like the tulle under skirts. The cars before him sluggishly inched forwards, dreading oncoming traffic. Alfred wasn't afraid at all.

The sun poked a hole through the white fluff, piercing the car windows and bouncing off like broken glass. Alfred looked around at the other cars, his eyes flicking forwards whenever he could pass through, his wheels crunching against the snow.

He wondered what kind of lives the people around him lived. He wondered where they had to go. Where they came from. Were they good people? Or bad? When was the last time they cried? Was it a year or five minutes ago? Alfred let the thoughts roam freely through his head as he drove. It passed the time by.

Matthew opened his eyes and looked at Alfred, then outside. _How long left? _Matthew watched Alfred's lips.

"I don't know, maybe twenty more minutes. Sleep if you want." He said.

Dream of something nice, too. Alfred thought, but didn't say.

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**A/N: **_This is a bit long so you can skip this if you want! _

_Hi, sorry guys for making another drabble story. This was supposed to be a big, long-chaptered, saga. But the idea needs to be written and I can't focus for very long (some health problems no big deal) so there's that. Hope you enjoy!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Rough waters ahead**. TRIGGER WARNING. **_

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**2.**

_Hanging by the doorway. Shadows swinging like pendulums, ticking off the minutes before somebody notices. Before someone screams or faints or cries or doesn't care. Words floating restlessly like galaxies tugged by gravity's waves, tumbling through the universe. Losing contact with reality. Souls and spirits or whatever you believe in slipping out of the body. Through the mouth or nose or between the teeth, like smoke or water. Anyway, one goes up the other goes down._

_Maybe something less dramatic, too. Maybe a cupful of sleeping pills, a nice suit, and a bed that will be cold by morning._

_Maybe a car accident._

_Maybe maybe maybe_

_The possibilities spiral out of control until there's nothing but a blur of thoughts and provoked fears. Fear like timid animals, shivering in their dens, and panicky. Poke them with a stick and they bite. Leave them alone and they fidget. Or they scratch themselves, bit their fur, tear off their ears, trying to break themselves when only they're getting bigger and smelling worse._

_Yeah, that's how it feels. _

. . .

Gilbert shut his laptop. The first few words of his novel were practically begging to be published. Now, if only he could write again. Then maybe these stale words, written nearly five months previous, would have new life breathed into them.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

The squatters lived in the house next door. It became a night's sky when compared to the blazing, dull lights of the shabby apartment complex next door. It was hard to tell who was poorer.

In the complex lived a huge variety of faces: from the under payed middle aged man still wondering if that girl he liked in high school was alive, to the family of five crawling by on bread crumbs and spare pennies.

The squatters were different. They lit the rooms with candles, slept on cardboard, and found every opportunity to laugh and have fun. The abandoned apartment house, redecorated and refurbished enough times to weaken the walls, was a maze. It was a game. Who could make the best art? Who could craft the best tables? Who could make the cosiest bed?

"Hey, life is tough." Alfred said one evening, standing near the squatter's house. Dark windows reflected the sharp street lamps. "But these people are tougher."

Matthew, holding a basket, nodded. He watched Alfred's lips intently. It only took a hearing aid to make him able to hear his brother's voice. But he needed money to do that.

Alfred signed to Matthew to give him the basket. Matthew did, taking one of the flowers from the top. He placed the daisy on the window sill, tilting it so it was just barely visible. Alfred set the basket inside, since the door was open. He peered in and whistled. Matthew waited.

He ran a hand through his hair, which was long and curly, with flecks of brown against a tawny hue. Alfred turned back to Matthew. _Where next? _

_Up to you._

_What about home?_

_Up to you._

Alfred smiled. He patted Matthew's back. "Come on, let's go—"

Before he could complete his sentence, a sudden burst of sound and heat and light, followed by dust billowing like skirts, erupted in the building across from them.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

"Sir, please don't smoke in here."

Matthew looked up, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes locked on the nurse. He raised is eyebrows, pointing to his ear. He shook his head slowly. The nurse frowned, the saggy lines of her face, her flesh like the inside of chestnuts, twisted in apathy. She pointed to her lips, making a smoking gesture.

"No. Smoking." She mouthed.

Matthew sighed and snuffed the cigarette in his glass of water. He crossed his arms and stared out the window.

Not long after a second person came in to patronise him. Matthew turned, adjusting his wiry, circular glasses to a "what is it?" composure. The person at the door was an officer. Matthew felt his heart quicken. He straightened up in his bed.

The officer approached him and took a seat. "How's it going?"

Matthew smiled, giving the officer a small nod. He'd seen those words formed on enough mouths to tell how genuine they were. And this officer's chapped, flaky pale lips seemed sincere.

"I'm Gilbert B. Call me Gil." Gilbert held out a hand. Matthew shook it.

The corners of Gilbert's eyes and lips were red. His hairline was pink as well, fading into nearly translucent white, wispy hair.

"I have a few questions to ask you." Gilbert said, taking a notepad from the side of his uniform, right next to his thick, slick holster.

Matthew shook his head.

Gilbert paused.

"Are you deaf or mute?"

Matthew nodded.

Gilbert paused, putting the end of the pen to his lips. "Do hearing aids not work for you?"

Matthew raised a hand, pressing his thumb to his fore and middle fingers, rubbing them together. Money.

"I see." Gilbert said. "You can read my lips."

Matthew shrugged.

Gilbert stood up, slightly confused on what to do next. He washed the expression away quickly. "OK, I hear you have a brother here."

"Yes." A hollow voice, mimicking sound poorly from an ancient memory lodged somewhere in the past. Matthew shut his lips quickly and pointed in front of him.

Gilbert took to the next room, leaving Matthew exhausted and ashamed. But for what?


End file.
